


The Song Is Not Quite the Same

by bluetoast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Accidents, Dean Winchester Feels, Implied Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jealous Sam Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetoast/pseuds/bluetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam ran off to Stanford and John ran off to blow off steam, Dean stayed behind to pick up the pieces before heading off himself. Unfortunately, that included a drunken night that ended in a crash that left him in a coma. Two weeks later, Dean awoke to find his room empty and neither father nor brother had come looking for him. Unable to hunt any longer, Dean set out for a new life. Things were fine for five years - and then John and Sam Winchester had to come and have lunch in <i>his </i>diner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Song Is Not Quite the Same

Dean woke up before his alarm, as was his usual routine. Truth was, he only set the alarm to make sure he did get up in time. Long ingrained habits from hunting never left a person, even one who had left the life. For a few minutes, he lay in bed, enjoying the relative peace and quiet. Five years of normal, not-quite-apple pie life. Five years since he last hunted, five years since he talked to Sam or Dad, four years, eleven months and two weeks sober. He knew that alcohol had led him to the place he was now. If he hadn't foolishly gotten wasted and then gotten behind the wheel, he never would have gotten into that one car-accident that left him in a coma for two weeks. It'd been him, the Impala, half a pint of whiskey, three beers and an elm tree. 

Dean took some consolation in the fact that the elm tree was turned into firewood as he wasn't the first person to ever slam his car into it. The good people of Middleburg, Iowa had apparently felt the same way and cut it down. The Impala fared slightly better than the tree. Dean had pawned three shotguns to pay for someone to replace the driver's side door. Paying the hospital bill had taken a lot of filling out forms, headaches and had come with the demand that he sober up and start AA. Dean had almost balked at that until he realized just what the wreck had done to him.

Apparently breaking all three of the major bones in your leg – femur, knee and tibia, was a good way to ensure you wouldn't be running marathons any time soon. It also meant he couldn't hunt anymore. So, once his bill of health was clean, he headed off in the mostly-repaired Impala for a new life – because it was very clear to him that no one from his old life didn't give a shit.

That was the worst of all of it. Dean knew that he could have handled all of what happened much better if he'd woken up after the coma to find someone there waiting for him.

No one had been waiting for him. Not Sam. Not Dad. No one had called looking for him, there had been no one to greet him but a grandmotherly nurse who called him honey every time she saw him. 

Dean shook his head to clear it and yawned, stretched and pulled himself to a sit. He glanced over at the other person in the bed who was snoring quietly. Dean leaned down and planted a quick kiss on the man's temple before getting out of bed and going quietly to the bathroom. After getting dressed and ready for work, he went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. It had just finished brewing when he heard the sound of running water. 

“Typical.” Dean got the creamer out of the fridge and set it next to the pot. 

“Morning.” Lance Talbot came into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Somewhere between midnight and sunrise.” Dean chuckled and took a drink from his mug. “I keep telling you that you don't have to get up this early.” 

“Habit.” The man fixed his coffee and gave Dean a quick kiss on the cheek. “Besides, I didn't get all my papers graded last night.”

“You know I can help you with that, if you want.” He went to the cupboard and pulled out a box of corn flakes. “What do you want for dinner tonight?”

Lance shook his head. “I haven't thought that far ahead. I wish you would let me cook once in a while.”

“I'm already planning on making pork chops, so there's your answer to what's for dinner, unless you want something different.” He fixed his cereal and went over to the table. “You want rice or potatoes with them?”

“I'll make us pilaf.” Lance settled into a chair, holding his mug. “The kind with curry powder that you love so much.”

“You're sweet.” He tucked into his breakfast. “I'm going to a meeting at four, so I think you may get home before I do.” Dean saw the man glance at him over his cup. “What?”

“Your five year is coming up.” He smiled. “Maybe we could I don't know, celebrate somehow.”

“I don't want a big deal made out of it.” He turned his attention to his cereal. “It's not that big of a deal.”

“It is a big deal, Dean. Both of my parents fell off the bandwagon before they even reached a year.” He set his mug down. “It doesn't have to be anything big, I was just... I don't know, we could take a weekend vacation somewhere. We could take the train into New York City – go do, I don't know...”

“Go see what there is to see.” He smiled. “It's cutting it kind of close, don't you think?”

“School's nearly out. It can be a double celebration.” Lance rose from the table to get his own bowl of cereal. “You think about what you'd want do today.”

Dean smiled. “I'll try to.” 

*  
The diner was bright and cheerful and Sam hated it. The place seemed so out of place from the other places he and Dad frequented. Perhaps it was the fact that the place was so clean and the people working there didn't look like they were trapped in the seventies. He knew he shouldn't complain, clean was always a good thing – it meant at least there was almost no chance of food poisoning due to unsanitary conditions. Of course, if the cheap motels he and Dean had grown up had most likely already done a number on their lungs from breathing in mold, a little stomach bug wasn't much to complain about. 

Dean. Sam tried not to think about his brother most of the time. He hadn't seen him in five years and he missed the guy. Especially now. He had sworn he was done hunting and then his Dad dragged him off on one last hunt – after a Woman in White. Dad had confessed a whole slew of things on the drive from Palo Alto to Jericho, a town three hours away. But they got her – came back to Sam's apartment to find his girlfriend Jess, dead. The demon that killed mom killed her as well. With nothing but the urge for vengeance to fuel him on, Sam had left with his father in pursuit of the demon. Sam had been surprised that Dad had lost track of Dean – but then again, their father had taught them well and they both had learned how to drop off the radar with minimal difficulty. 

Sam wanted Dean back for a handful of reasons – mostly for companionship. He shook his head to clear it and glanced up at the wipe-off board over the counter proclaiming the day's specials. “Guess we missed breakfast.”

John Winchester chuckled. “If it's breakfast you want, this is the sort of place that most likely serves it all day long.” He glanced at the board for a moment. “I know what I want.”

Sam shook his head and pulled the menu out from the side of the booth. “I'm going to see what sort of omelets they have.” 

“Good afternoon.” A waitress had appeared next to their table. “I'm Jennie and I'll be taking care of you boys today. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

John looked up and gave her a smile. “Coffee, please.” He looked over at his son. “Sam, you want coffee too?”

“Yeah...” He glanced over the top of his menu. “...and some water, too, please.” 

“Not a problem.” She scrawled their order on the notepad. “Just so you know, we do serve breakfast all day long – the only restriction we have is that there's no cake or pie available before noon.”

“Why's that?” John gave her a slight grin.

“They have to bake, sugar.” She returned the smile. “I'll go get your coffee.” She turned and left.

“Dad, she's like, my age.” Sam said, with slight disgust in his voice. “I'm ready.”

John shook his head as Jennie came back and set their drinks down. 

“You boys know what you want today?” She turned to Sam first. 

“Yeah, could I get the western omelet? Wheat toast.” Sam set his menu back in its place. 

“Sure.” She scribbled it down. “You?”

“The Blue Plate special, please.” John took a sip from his coffee.

“You want that grilled cheese on the Texas Toast or on regular sandwich bread?” She didn't look up.

“The Toast is fine.” John replied. 

“I'll get that in for you and it will be out in just a few minutes.” She turned and left the table.

Sam poured cream and sugar into his coffee, suddenly thinking of something. “You think this blue plate special will actually come on a blue plate?” 

John snorted into his mug. “They never have, have they?” 

“Not that I've seen.” Sam took a drink from his coffee. “You?”

“No. Had one that came on a plate with blue trim – but that's about the closest it's been.” John set his journal on the table. “I was thinking that after we're finished here in town... we might start looking for Dean.”

“What for?” He poked at the empty sugar packet on the table. “Five years, Dad – he could be in Alaska by now.”

“I hear it's lovely up there this time of year.” John said. “I'm willing to bet that Jim has talked to him at least. He has to have contacted Bobby Singer a time or two as well.”

“If he has, then he's the only Winchester that Bobby Singer will talk to.” Sam took a long drink from his mug.

“All right, here we are.” A platter slid in front of Sam. “One western omelet and one special.”

“Well I'll be damned.” John looked up at Jennie. “That's the first time I've seen a blue plate special on a blue plate – and bowl, no less.” 

“It helps us remember what's what.” She stepped back. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Sure.” Sam said as she walked away. “Maybe we should buy a lottery ticket.” 

John snorted and picked up his soup spoon. “Let's not push our luck like that.” He stirred the red soup for a moment and then ate a mouthful. 

Sam watched as a look of complete bliss mixed with astonishment spread across his father's face and then he quickly ate another mouthful, as if to confirm what he was eating. “That good?”

He set the spoon down, actually licking at the corners of his mouth. “Sam, this tomato rice soup – tastes _exactly_ the same way your mother made it.” He ate another spoonful. “Which is crazy, because the only person alive who knows how to make this soup is your brother.”

“That is crazy.” Sam picked up his fork. “Maybe years ago, the recipe showed up on the back of a can of Campbell's and two people modified it the same way. It happens.” He took a bite of egg – and was floored by how light it tasted. That combination of egg and milk he could never get right. “Crap, this amazing too...” 

John glanced around the diner, but none of the other people with blue plates on their tables seemed floored by what they were eating. It seemed to be just him and Sam. He drained his coffee mug and set it at the end of the table, a silent signal he wanted it refilled. “Something's up here.”

Sam took a bite of toast, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“No one else seems surprised by the quality of food.” John watched Jennie approaching the table, pot in hand. “They can't all be locals.”

“Dad...” He set his fork down. “We've got hex bags, the demon...” 

“You want some more coffee?” Jennie asked, most likely out habit.

“Yeah. Say... any chance we could talk to the cook?” John figured he had to find out what was going on. 

“Is something wrong?” Jennie stepped back after filling the mug.

“No, nothing's wrong. I just want to talk to the person who made this soup...” He tapped the half empty bowl with his spoon. “It tastes exactly like my late wife's, so...” 

“Give me a couple of minutes to check with him. The lunch rush is nearly over, so it most likely won't be a problem.” She turned with her pot and left. 

“Dad... what are you doing?” Sam wished his father would not freak out like this. He had been so damn jumpy lately that they'd dropped the fake credit cards had gone to cash only, no easy feat in their line of work. It meant a lot of nights sleeping in the bed of the truck now that winter was over – something that Sam was not looking forward to a summer of.

“Wait...” John held up a hand as the kitchen door swung open and his look of worry went to shock. “Oh my god...”

“What?” Sam turned around and knew his expression changed as a man limped towards the table, a very forced smile on his face. “What.... what happened to him?”

The cook was even with the table before either of them recovered. “Is something wrong with your lunch?” Dean's voice sounded so forced, it was frightening.

“Dean?” John broke first. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Please do not swear in this establishment sir, there are young children present.” He shot a look at Sam, his face unreadable. “Again, is there something wrong?”

“No.” Sam recovered first. “No, nothing's wrong. Sorry... uh...”

“Thank you and have a nice day.” Dean replied, limping back up the isle towards the kitchen. John saw another man stop him and say something to him, whatever it was, it somehow broke the Dean's mood and he laughed before going back into the kitchen.

“Dad?” Sam gave his father a look. “What.. how...”

“I don't know, Sam. I don't know.” John opened his wallet and tossed a ten and a five on the table. “We have work to do.” 

“Yeah.” He drained his water glass and they left the diner.

*  
“I swear, it took all my willpower not to just take that cup of coffee and dump it over his head!” Dean looked around the circle, everyone listening to him in rapt attention. “It was like they couldn't believe I was there, or something.”

“If I'd have been there, I'd have done it for you,” the man sitting across from Dean said. “They couldn't even manage a hello, or anything?”

“No – and I just want them out of town before I go do something stupid.” He slid his fingers through his hair. “I was just so angry – I'm still angry.”

“After what happened, I'd say anger is your right.” A woman named Ivy put in. “I mean, wasn't your dad the moron who thought handing you a beer at twelve was perfectly fine?”

“Yeah.” Dean snorted. “Maybe his thinking was how since it has barley in it, it counts as a grain. That's like calling vodka a vegetable.”

There was a collective laugh. “You going to be okay Dean?” the leader of the group, Mitch, asked. 

“I think so. I mean, I didn't want to drink so much as I wanted to punch something. So if tomorrow's bread seems a little extra beaten at the diner tomorrow, I'm sorry.” Dean slid his fingers through his hair. “Maybe I wouldn't be so upset if they had actually come here looking for me, rather than just passing through.”

Mitch nodded. “Well, do you imagine they will be in town long?” 

“No – and if they show up at my place, I swear, I'm going to call the cops.” Dean shrugged. “I'll come up with a reason for them not to be there.”

“From what you told us, your dad could be arrested for psychological abuse.” Ivy shifted in her seat. 

“Maybe.” Dean picked up his cup of coffee from where it was resting next to his chair.

*  
The house had to have been originally built as a ski cottage. Sam couldn't imagine someone building such a little home for no other purpose. Then again, it could have been a gardener's place when all of the neighborhood had belonged to the subdivision’s namesake, Crantsburry, Cranberry, whatever the hell it was. It was alarmingly quaint – with its iron fence surrounding the property almost completely, leaving only a gap for the drive and the front walk. The Impala was parked in the drive and keeping it company was another Impala – a newer model, perhaps just a few years old. It was almost cute in a way, Sam supposed.

The bench swing hanging from the massive oak tree and the rosebushes along the side of the house were perfect touches. Sam would never have thought his brother had lived in such a place. He had left Dad to do the interrogations on a vengeful spirit located in a house on the other side of town, or rather, Dad had told his son to find out what the hell was up with Dean and to be ready for a salt and burn late tonight. Shaking his head, Sam walked across the road and up the walk. What was he going to say to his brother? It'd been five years – almost six... why had his brother been limping? Where did he go, what happened? He pressed the bell and waited. 

The locks clicked back and the door swung open. Standing there was a man who was older than him but younger than Dean. His hair was black and he was dressed in a button down shirt and slacks. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I'm looking for Dean.” Sam looked over the man's shoulder, almost expecting to see his brother wave him in. Instead, the faint smell of pasta greeted him. “Is...”

“I know who you are.” The man's voice turned cold. “You're Sam.” 

“I... he's talked about me?” He was surprised.

“Yes. Now get the fuck off my porch before I punch you.” The man slammed the door and then Sam heard locks clicking into place. It was then that he noticed that despite what seemed like a safe neighborhood, there were a bunch of locks on the door – and the windows all had ornamental bars in front of them. His brother was shutting out intruders of all kinds. It was a sure bet that the back door had just as many locks on it. He thought about the man who had just shut the door in his face. No way could the guy take him. Sam had six inches and thirty pounds of muscle on him. He knocked again. “Dean!” He shouted, “I just want to talk!”

“It's not my life anymore, Sam.” Dean's voice was angry, a rare sound from his brother. “You wanted to be fucking left alone five years ago. This me telling you the same thing.”

“Things have changed, Dean...” Sam wondered if that sounded as pathetic out loud as it did in his head. 

The door was flung open and his brother stood there, red in the face. “Now you want family. What, need someone to keep you and Dad from killing each other? Someone to put up with your bitchy behavior? I'm done with it, Sam. Done with all of it.” He took a breath and Sam was so stunned by the outburst, he couldn't move. “I remain loyal to you and Dad and neither of you could get your heads out of your asses when I was lying in a coma in the hospital!” 

“Wait...” Sam shook his head. “I... if I had know, I would have...” 

“Don't give me that. The hospital tried contacting you several times. You always refused the call. Dad went so far as to change his phone number. I'm living my life now, Sam. Not Dads and you're too big for a nanny.” He took a breath. “Look, I'm sorry for whatever got you back on the hunt wagon, but I've been thrown off of it. I would appreciate it if you would just go away and leave me and Lance in peace.” He started to shut the door. 

Sam stuck his foot out to stop it. “I... you don't... did you tell him about...”

“About us? Of course I did Sam. He said he understood and he's helped me move on. You kept demanded to be treated like an adult, well, congrats Sam, you're a big boy now and big brother Dean is not going to clean up your messes anymore, he's got enough of his own to deal with.” 

Sam jerked his foot back to let the door completely shut. He took a few steps away, still floored by what had happened. 

*  
John wasn't too keen on leaving town without his little solider, but after asking around, came to the conclusion that his son would just be extra weight. What sort of fucked up number had they done to him in that hospital? The physical therapy must have been for shit if he couldn't come back from a broken leg. Dean had broken his leg several times and come off just fine. Then to add to that, the boy had stopped drinking. That was something John just couldn't grasp. A hunter, or even an ex-hunter needed to drink. It was a coping mechanism, less destructive than drugs – and also way more legal. Going to Alcoholics Anonymous? That was almost as bad as seeing a shrink. 

“Where did your brother go wrong, Sam?” John glanced over at his son, who was rested his head against the window.

“I don't know.” Sam was silently cheering in his mind. His brother had gotten out of hunting – at least one Winchester not hunting was a good thing. As much as jealousy burned at the fact that tonight, his brother was sleeping with someone else and that same person would be there in the morning, he was trying hard to be happy for him. “When we weren't looking, apparently.”

“Guess I shouldn't have left you two alone so often.” John shook his head. “It's a long drive to Florida, so you go ahead and get some sleep. I'll wake you up when it's your turn to drive.”

“Yeah.” Sam covered a yawn and closed his eyes, the rhythm of the road rocking him to sleep.

*  
Lance set the last bowl of steaming food down on the table just as Dean stumbled into the kitchen. “Morning.”

“Good...” He stopped short. “You made breakfast?” 

The man came over and kissed his cheek. “It's the first Sunday you've had off since May. I'd have brought it to you in bed – but I wanted to give you a variety.” 

Dean gave him a hug and returned the kiss. “It all smells wonderful.” He let himself be led over to the table. “You're spoiling me.”

“Well, you could use a good spoil every now and then.” They sat down at the table and filled their plates from the waiting platters. “Though I think I may have made enough food for four people, instead of just two.”

“We'll see.” Dean started in on his fried eggs.

Lance took a sip of coffee, watching the man over the rim of the mug. He knew he'd have to give up the charade sooner or later and tell Dean the truth of who he really was. It was a pretty big thing, being an archangel. But he knew that Dean would still love him even after he found out everything – just like he'd eventually stop sending John and Sam off on hunts that led them further and further from Dean. Those two had better get used to the idea of being together for the long haul – even if Azazel was already ashes thanks to him.

If there was one thing Gabriel was, it was patient.


End file.
